


Lost On You

by Lola_moon291



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Blood and Gore, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, Jeremiah Valeska Has So Many Issues, Jerome Valeska Has So Many Issues, Jerome’s horny for violence, Kidnapping, Knifeplay, M/M, Major Character Death but it’s not Bruce, Mean Bruce, Mean Jerome, Mind Games, Multi, Mutal Obsession, No Twincest, On Hiatus, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Power Imbalance, Self-Hatred, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Somophila if you squint, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Violence is a love language, dead dove:do not eat, dub-con, slow slow burn, so much angst holy fuck, unhealthy relationship dynamics, unreliable narrators
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:29:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27156641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lola_moon291/pseuds/Lola_moon291
Summary: Jerome and Jeremiah, have never gotten along, but nothing brings people together like a kidnapping, and if Jerome has other motives, well... whose to say that Jeremiah doesn’t.
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Jeremiah Valeska & Jerome Valeska, Jerome Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Jerome Valeska/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	1. Don’t Dwell

**Author's Note:**

> Hey lol *dumps terrible unedited first chapter onto you cutely*

Fear is easy, familiar. This is different. A mind numbing, soul crushing ache in his chest. The air being physically tipped out of his lungs, gasping for breath but taking in nothing, black spots crowding his vision as his delicate hands clawed at the ones around his throat. He looked into the eyes of the man above him and saw nothing inside them.

“Don’t dwell on it bruce, there’s no way you could’ve known. Now, just close your eyes and let go. It’s so much easier if you don’t fight it.” Bruce knew all too well about fighting death, not his own of course, but he knew nonetheless the struggle of the finality. He fought until the black in his vision muted everything else, until his eyes stung with tears of betrayal, his fingers went slack against his will as he finally slipped into unconsciousness.

——————

Jerome had always been a bit theatrical, of course he supposed showmanship was in his very nature, Jeremiah had always been more subtle. Understated, and unassuming. He supposed that’s what made him believable. Poor miah, always the victim of his sinister, sadistic brother. Jerome had to admit he was impressed, Miah never was one for violence in the traditional sense, anyway. Watching the lights leave someone’s eyes even if it was only temporary always screwed with his, ah moral compass, he’d much rather manipulate and lie than show someone his true nature, but Jerome knew they were the same, had the same genes and blood running through them. That same glint in their eye when they pulled a scheme as kids. He was just as insane as him, regardless of what he told the world he was a showman too of sorts, but it’s never been clearer how similar they are then now. Jeremiah hovering over an unconscious Bruce Wayne, hands still wrapped loosely around his throat. Looking over his shoulder same glint in his eye. Jerome’s idea of family bonding, unconventional but affective. He makes sure his steps are easy, silent he doesn’t wanna startle Miah, once he realizes the aforementioned effects of his actions. Impulse. Shoving him gently as he wraps his arms around Bruce’s narrow waist, picking him up with ease, Miah’s starting the freak reversely whispering to himself a mantra of “oh no” and “what have I done” followed by a hushed “this is all you’re fault Jerome.” Because if Jeremiah knew how to do anything, it was blame Jerome for his own actions. Anger was blooming but Jerome was focused. 

“Get up, we have to go, and you need to drive.”

“I- I killed him, I’m a murder, because of you.” Jerome laughed walking deftly out of the overly decorated room down the overly decorated stairs, to the front door. Miah following closely behind him. 

“Shut up. He’s not dead, just unconscious. You’re not a murder, just an asshole.”

“He’s not dead” Jeremiah said as they made their way out of the manor, Jesus their security was a joke. Jerome would have to tell Bruce that once he woke up, it was down right laughable of course everything was, but still. 

“No he’s not dead.” Jerome hosted bruce closer to his chest, out of necessity, From an outside perspective he supposed it looked like Jerome was rescuing him, the knight saving the princess from he tower. But Jerome wasn’t a knight, and Bruce well actually he was the closest thing to a princess Jerome could think of, all prim and proper, perfect feathers in desperate need of ruffling. And Jerome definitely planned to do so, even if it meant working with his failed abortion of a brother. Jeremiah had parked half a mile or so away, from the manor. Jerome opened the overpriced cars door dropping Bruce roughly into the backseat. 

“Seat belt, Jerome.” 

“Ya gotta be fucking kidding me, he’s passed out Miah’ he doesn’t-whatever.” Jerome said gruffly fastening the seat belt and sitting next to him. “Drive.” Bruce looked almost angelic, all frail bone and pale skin, apart from the bruises forming around his throat, Jerome traced them with his own fingers, he wouldn’t stir, not for a while anyway, wouldn’t notice if his hair had been pushed out of his face so Jerome could get a better look, or feel the phantom trace of Jerome’s thumb at his lips, neither would Miah eyes focused solely on the road. Jerome wasn’t one for chastity but Bruce was like those glass tea cups his mom had when he was little, the ones so pretty that he couldn’t resist playing with, he always ended up breaking them, learned to like the sound of them shattering into pieces on the cheap linoleum of the trailer, he’d try to fix them cut himself on the glass trying to force them back together. He’d like to break bruce too he thinks, maybe even put him back together too.


	2. Freak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is awake, head reeling and throat bruised he ponders his means of escape and survival, until his mind drifts elsewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys here’s chapter two I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. It’s getting dark so buckle up.

Alive. Bruce was alive, it was surprising bruce saw death in the eyes of Jeremiah as he faded into darkness, but he was, against all odds, perfectly intact, aside from what he’d assumed was a concussion from being thrown to the ground in the struggle and a bruised throat. His brain was buzzing, drowning in his own thoughts he tried to calm himself, he couldn’t breathe he can’t-can’t breathe. Jesus, where is he? What’s going on? Why did-why would Jeremiah hurt him? They were friends right? Or at least the were on their way to it, it was ignorant of Bruce to trust him without question. He knew that now, but some part of Bruce so desperately desired to befriend him, it wasn’t very difficult to figure out why. Someone with that face, those eyes, someone good, someone who was and wasn’t him, wasn’t like Jerome but was all the same the good if there was any without the awful pain and chaos. They’d both been tormented the same way, maybe the circumstances were different but it bonded them or at least bruce thought it did, he wasn’t quite sure of anything now, maybe it was all a lie, maybe they were too alike after all it had been stupid to think Bruce’s friendship with Jeremiah was stronger than his familial obligation regardless of his fists in for Jerome, he was family. Bruce was nothing. 

Bruce remembers when he had truly seen it, the look in Jerome’s eye when he spoke to him, the emptiness, urgency, an ache for profound understanding and against his better judgement bruce wanted to, to understand him desperately if he was reaching out bruce could meet him halfway. That’s what made him so dangerous bruce was intrigued by him, the prospect of changing him as if it was ever a possibility but Jerome loved games almost as much as he loved chaos and madness. At every chance Jerome had he denied Bruce. He couldn’t save someone who didn’t want to be saved. It was just another cruel game, he was bored and Bruce was eager. It would’ve destroyed him had he let it, maybe that was the goal. 

Jeremiah had the same look plastered on his face when he’d attacked him, they had never looked so similar as they did in that moment, Bruce could’ve mistaken him for Jerome hadn’t been for his perfectly intact face, and the hesitation of his trembling hands. That fact alone gutted him. Jeremiah was different, his mind was brilliant, he was good or at least some part of him wanted to be, and Bruce just needed to talk to him. Tell him that everything would be okay, even if nothing and it was all so wrong. None of that mattered because it was bruce, he made a mistake and they would be okay after this. It was a lie bruce knew that even if his mind fought to rationalize it, Jeremiah shared more similarities with his twin than either of them would ever admit.

Bruce knows his motives aren’t pure, that he isn’t a good person, it’s selfish, wrong to attach himself to someone simply because they share a face but Jerome wasn’t an option, Bruce can’t think too hard on that because if he does, he’s not quite sure he could keep pretending that Jeremiah is much longer and this game of make believe is far safer than the alternative. Bruce doesn’t let himself think too hard on that either, Jeremiah was right it’s better not to dwell.

Bruce can hear steady breathing pulling him from his thoughts, it’s faint, maybe he just imagined it but it sounded like- no it couldn’t be. He’s was gone, locked away in some maximum security prison after his stint in Arkham. He was gone but still bruce swears every now and then, he could feel his presence while he slept, soft rasped whispers of how he’d end him,how he’d cut bruce into thousands of tiny pieces one by one, take him apart, as gloved fingers carded gently through his hair, just to torture him, sometimes bruce would whisper back beg him to stay even, against every instinct his body, but every time he woke, he was alone, his minds way of torturing him with the empty promises of a mad man were far crueler than anything Jerome could’ve ever done. 

Bruce hated him for it. Hated him with every fiber of his being, because if he didn’t he might feel compassion, might do something stupid like tell him he was worth saving that he wasn’t the monster he so clearly was, hate was good, rational, grounding and hate was all he deserved from Bruce. The only emotion he was willing to spare for him.

When Bruce finally opened his eyes, the florescent lightbulb above him was far too bright, illuminating only him like he was being put on display, a makeshift spotlight that did nothing for the shrouding darkness that surrounded him. He tried to move but he’s tied down to a chair, ropes neatly knotted around his chest keeping him in place. There’s handcuffs on his wrists behind him, police grade he thinks, at his ankles too, he could try picking them but he’s weak or drugged, can’t think straight everything’s fuzzy his mind feels like tv static. The air is cold, he can see his breath when he speaks and the chill when he moves against the metal of the chair, Jeremiah took his clothes leaving him only in black boxers and socks, he was practically freezing. 

Bruce’s knife was in his coat at the manor which meant no means of protection, no way to escape. He would have to wait until an opportunity presented itself, he just had to endure long enough to talk to Jeremiah. Bruce hoped it was possible for both of them to walk away from this unscathed, but even his optimism only went so far, Bruce didn’t know what he would do if Jeremiah refused to let him go, he couldn’t kill him, he couldn’t right? No, whatever’s in his system was kicking in, his vision was blurring at the edges. But he was fine he had to be.

“Jeremiah!” He yelled hoarsely into the nothingness, his throat sore. He tried again softer, hoping his voice would coax him out of the darkness. “Please, Jeremiah I just want to talk. I’m not angry, just confused.” He heard more than saw his figure shift through the darkness, footsteps approaching him slowly. Was he here the whole time? So bruce hadn’t imagined the breathing. Before Bruce could think any harder about it Jeremiah was standing in front of him, a crooked smile on his face, he seemed taller, different. It dawned then on Bruce that it wasn’t Jeremiah at all, he furrowed his brow, his head was spinning. 

“Hiya doll.” He grimaced at the pet name. Screwing his eyes shut. Ignoring the disgust flutter in his stomach at the rasp of the voice. His heart beating out of his chest. Understanding etching into his features for mere seconds before a gloved hand pulled roughly at his jaw forcing him to meet green eyes, they looked brighter now less hazel and more emerald, the kind of eyes, had it been a pretty girl bruce might’ve gotten lost in, might’ve found striking and beautiful. Jerome was far from a pretty girl. Jerome was a monster.

“I don’t understand how-“ Jerome as he tended to do cut him off.

“Ah, got jealous. Couldn’t let dear brother have all the fun, ‘sides I’m much better at the physical stuff then he ever was anyways.” Bruce ignored the flush of his cheeks, and the way jerome looked in his Arkham uniform. Bruce didn’t respond immediately instead opting to stare gingerly at Jerome, his hair was ruffled messily like always in fiery red spikes, he was pale enough that his freckles peaked through a bit, Bruce had never noticed them before, he wanted to count them memorize the placement of them he wonders if Jeremiah has freckles too, his heart aches at the thought, he doesn’t know why. Before he can sidetrack Bruce corrects him.

“Anyway.” 

“What?” 

“Anyways is grammatically incorrect, it’s anyway.” Jerome’s smile seemed to widen at that, he looked almost inhuman, like the killer he truly was, Bruce always found it strange how his face changed on a dime sweet almost innocent to ghoulish, he briefly wonders if Jerome had ever been described as sweet or innocent no, ghoulish was definitely more likely bruce wasn’t blind he read the papers written about the madman plaguing Gotham he tried not to ignored them at first but Jerome was in ignorable he had commanded Bruce’s full attention since they met, It sent dread through Bruce’s entire body to even think about like before him. Jerome was never innocent, never got the chance to be and that makes his heart ache too his heart might just break at this rate he almost can’t take it all the breaking and re-breaking, opening old wounds just to watch bruce bleed it was utterly exhausting. Briefly bruce thought that might be more his doing than Jerome’s a thought he did not revel in.

Perhaps Jerome would kill him, maybe for Jeremiah who just couldn’t stomach the actually act, couldn’t look bruce in the eyes again after what he’d done and finish him off. Jerome did always say he was a coward, maybe he was right, or maybe this was all Jerome’s idea, he always did love drama. He’d take his time bruce imagines. Killing bruce would be an intimate act. He could kill him now quickly, but he doubted it. He’d want him to suffer, slowly. Jerome would savor it, bleed him dry, and maybe Bruce didn’t hate the thought of it enough and if that was alarming, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not now in his own head anyway.

Jerome’s response was brief. “Got it.” He nodded staring at bruce quizzically and then like a starving man, no a lion starved for days looking at a gazelle. The intensity is terrifying, being so seen, nothing to hide behind. Bruce is suddenly very aware of his naked body alone, with no one but Jerome Valeska. He doesn’t want to know why that makes his blood thrum under his skin, maybe this is the hunger people are always going on about the lion and the gazelle he’d not so sure who’s who if he was being completely honest. This silence between them was thick when Jerome finally broke it. “Anyway, you said you wanted to talk so, go ahead, please use all your eloquent words about how you can save him, or how it’s okay and he can make it through this. I’ll be sure to relay the message.” Jerome’s tone was raspy, scarred, like his face in that manner but it had a certain magnetism that you just couldn’t pull away from. Jerome was like that too, he thought to himself, magnetized. Always pulling, the more resistance the stronger his pull until you were practically ripping yourself apart to resist it. Bruce was different he understood Jerome, understood how to look away from the scars, the showmanship of it all. There was no pull, there couldn’t be. Unfortunately Jerome felt otherwise.   
”You’re starin’ Brucie, like what ya see?” His tone was smug Bruce wanted to punch the smile right off his face. In fact bruce wouldn’t mind punching his face right off. Again.

“No,” bruce exhaled sharply, knotting his brows together. “You’re staring, you’re hand is lifting my head.” His voice was terce, defend, any hint of softness gone he wouldn’t give Jerome the satisfaction of it. It wouldn’t work, to him vulnerability was weakness and he would exploit it any chance he got. Still, Bruce couldn’t ignore the feeling of it, the touch wasn’t gentle but it wasn’t rough either, Jerome’s fingers were wrapped in off white gloves, Bruce had noticed them at the charity fundraiser, and again at the circus, once or twice in his nightmares. He thought about asking why he wore them but thought better of it. He didn’t care. Jerome spoke before he could say anything else.

“Ouch, thought we were havin’ a moment,” he sighed dramatically, drawing back his hand from Bruce like he’d been burned. Bruce scoffed, mentally chastising himself for almost chasing the touch as he looked into the darkness around them.

“Where am I?” 

“With me Bruce, that so bad?” the red head says as he pulls another metal chair out of the darkness, sitting on it backwards in front of Bruce, staring at him, actively searching for Bruce to give himself away somehow, like he was serious in his joking deflection, Bruce wouldn’t oblige him, instead setting his mouth into a firm line. Jerome laughed to himself at that. Bruce for the third time since he woke wanted nothing more than to shut him up. Beat him into unconsciousness. He’d be pretty like that. Sleeping. Quiet. He fantasizes about it while they look through each other. Clenching and unclenching his fists behind him. 

A chill runs through his spine at Jerome’s unreadable expression, a heavy silence falling between them. Bruce can feel it vibrate on his skin. Jerome’s wringing out his gloved fingers, before biting them off, slowly slipping them into his jacket pocket. The tips of his fingers are almost purple he supposes a side effect from cheating death twice. Wonders if he could make it sticks and then clears his throat at the thought. Jerome’s looking at bruce in a way bruce can’t explain and then he’s standing. Moving slender fingers to his sleeve and pulling out a hunting knife, Bruce’s eyes go wide as he recognizes it his father used to take him hunting every year. “I found it on the desk. You don’t mind do ya?” Jerome says tilting his head while lightly flipping it between his fingers. 

“That doesn’t belong to you, don’t“ Jerome moved closer. 

“Don’t what? What’d ya think I’m gonna do. Truthfully I haven’t decided,” closer. “See I’m not much of a planner,” Even closer, they were almost face to face now . Bruce could smell his cinnamon gum on Jerome’s breathe, which meant, he was there at the manor, when Jeremiah.

His heart was beating so loud, he wouldn’t have been surprised if Jerome could hear it, settling behind him shortly after putting his free hand on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce exhaled a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Jerome was cold, He shivered involuntary. “I’d much rather be, spontaneous” Jerome said with a breathless laugh, his father’s hunting knife trailed playfully at the back of his neck, no real pressure, Jerome was just taunting him, always teasing. Maintaining control by shedding light on Bruce’s weak spots, it wouldn’t work but Jerome already knew that, he was doing it purely to get a rise out of him for his own entertainment. The worse part was it worked, every time. 

Once again Jerome crossed his mind, his body buzzed at the thought of watching him bleed out beneath him, Jerome Valeska reduced to begging for mercy. It was an awful thought, one Bruce was sure to tamp down the moment it surfaced. Jerome had weak spots too, he wasn’t invulnerable.

“If you’re trying to bait me Jerome, you’ll have to try harder than my father’s knife.” Jerome leaned in closer behind him free hand traveling from his shoulder to the base of his neck. Goosebumps trailing in the wake of his fingers.

“Well, even so I have to admit, Daddy’s got good taste.” He whispered to Bruce. He felt his face flush at the words tensed, It was stupid for a second he was sure the words held a double meaning, he hoped Jerome hadn’t noticed his adverse reaction and if he did he said nothing. Bruce cleared his throat and relaxed himself before speaking every fiber of his body was on fire and Jerome was a never ending stream of gasoline, they burned together never put out. Not for a moment they were together , Bruce hated fire, the heat, the unpredictability, the carnage it left in its wake. When he spoke he tried for agreeable, clinical separation from his emotions that’s what gave him an advantage. 

“Yes, he did.” 

“Ya know, I never really was to close with dear old dad but I did enjoy killing him, watching him die. Very...cathartic.” He was standing in front of Bruce now slinging himself out of his jacket. Jerome’s voice was lowered, like they were only friends sharing a secret. “Was it cathartic for you bruce, watching you’re parents die?” Bruce’s blood ran cold, there wasn’t even an attempt to school his hurt expression. Jerome was practically beaming. Bruce had never wanted to kill anyone more in his life. “Strike a nerve?” Bruce stilled. Exhaling heavily.

“Was it cathartic to-to watch your mother die?” The words came out of his mouth before he could stop them so quickly that for a second he thought he hadn’t said them at all. Jerome’s smile quickly replaced with a set jaw and empty eyes. Bruce paid no mind to the stab of guilt through his heart. Choosing to focus on the rush of adrenaline coursing through him, Jerome had started it he was just, getting even. Still he didn’t stop the small smile that played at his lips as another silence fell over them. He broke the silence cruelly “Strike a nerve?” 

He didn’t expect the sharp slap against his cheek, his teeth clacking together catching his bottom lip, Bruce doesn’t know what he thought Jerome would do he’d never brought up his mother before. Before he could thing Jerome was at his ear again. “Killing my whore of a mother was the best thing I’ve ever done. She deserved it, and watching her as she screamed and screamed for me to stop begged me to help her, god it gets me going just to thinking about it,” He should’ve kept quiet, his minute of self satisfaction was long gone. Jerome was burrowing himself under Bruce’s skin as the minutes ticked on and it wouldn’t be long until bruce didn’t know where he began and Jerome ended. He felt sick to his stomach at the thought. “S’matter princess, feeling sick? That’s adorable.” 

“You’re awful, a freak of nature” Bruce looked anywhere but him as he walked back, hand splayed over roughly over his cheek to marvel at his handy work, cold hand soothing the forming bruise. Bruce winced as Jerome mumbled under his breath, something about his mother and how they sounded just alike, it made his heart twinge, pangs of regret and pity flowed through him as Jerome’s fingers dancing to his lips, gently, blood spreading between cold fingertips, bringing them to scarred lips. “You taste sweet bruce.” 

Bruce felt the heat radiating through him the way he felt when they fought. It was raw, frayed like exposed nerves, truly an awful feeling that couldn’t be compared to anything else. Terrible and grand all at the same time. Bruce had no time to react to Jerome’s antics, or analyze why he did what he did Jerome was pure chaos. only watched silently in awe as the older boy faded into darkness. Leaving him once again without a word. Head spinning more confused then ever before. Finally succumbing to restless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I hope you liked it let me know what you think. Till next time dolls ;)


	3. Play Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeremiah reminisces on his time with Jerome, and Bruce, and the tabs he’d kept on his time away wondering idly the history between his psychotic brother and poor naive bruce. Jerome finds some new developments, what could possibly go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey it’s me and I’ve been working on this chapter for literal days almost a week but it’s finally done, and I really hope you like it. Also this is dead dove:do not eat so please, this isn’t even the heavy, don’t read if this kinda thing is triggering for you and stay safe 💕

It was barely 2 am, Jeremiah pulled into the warehouse just past the edge of town. It looked abandoned, desolate, that of course was the point the inside, however was all fortified concrete and steel, recycled materials to save on expense and environmental harm, back when he still cared for that sort of thing. The earth was doomed recycled or otherwise. Six main rooms scattered throughout it, others he had hidden in plain sight. He had worked on it with Ecco when they first left home, it wasn’t his best work,done in haste but it was his first, their first, a panic room of sorts, a place to go had they ever gotten into trouble; it would do nicely enough. 

Of course back then the anticipated trouble was Jerome finally figuring out he was alive and then in turn where he’d gone. Jeremiah always knew he would figure it out, find him. It was always only a matter of when.

Jerome wouldn’t have known about this place, wouldn’t think to look here, it wasn’t on any map, completely isolated, it would be useless against him now. Jerome had found him anyway, manipulated him in the way only he could, lured him to a naive and trusting Bruce Wayne. Made him do unspeakable things, indirectly but Jerome’s doing all the same, nonetheless he was alive and Jerome aside from his general angry and violence coupled with sarcasm and inappropriate remarks still seemed agreeable. 

He was different now, rougher around the edges then before it had to have something to do with Bruce, Jeremiah kept up with what he could outside of Gotham, had Ecco bring him newspapers every now and then. They had history it was obvious and yet Jeremiah couldn’t help the guilt that sept through him for leaving, Jerome was a lot of things before this but he wasn’t a killer, small animals maybe but not people. Jeremiah how ever insignificant was partially responsible for the outcome of things. 

He’d loved his mother, dearly, but she wasn’t with out her faults, she was cruel and cold but he knew she wasn’t well. Not all there, couldn’t possibly take care of Jerome the way he needed, he wasn’t sure anyone could. He thinks back to the manor where he’d lost it, wrapped his hands tightly around Bruce’s throat and squeezed till he saw the whites of his eyes, maybe that’s what it was like for Jerome when he’d ended her life, an inescapable euphoria that you couldn’t stop chasing, not even when you knew wrong, evil. Maybe that’s what he meant when he said they were in it together now. 

Jeremiah hated it but he supposed Jerome was right. He wondered if He would ever forgive him, even had the capacity for something so empathetic as forgiveness, understanding. He doubted it, Jerome had always been one to hold a grudge, get even, those made sense to him, violence and rage he could handle, that was all he could handle and that hadn’t changed. Not in the slightest.

Jeremiah was mildly concerned as he thought about his fascination with Bruce, it wasn’t peculiar that he’d taken interest that was something Jeremiah could understand bruce was brilliant, beautiful, but he was still just a boy. And yet somehow he was still alive, Jerome had taken interest in things before when they were children. Mostly animals, none of them had survived him, not once Jerome had his way. He knew Bruce’s fate was sealed he might as well have killed him that day, save him the torture of drawing it out. Bruce was his best friend after all, it was the kind thing to do, but he’d been stupid, and more than a little selfish, but he could’ve been worse so he does best not to dwell on the morality of it all.

When they were 9 they found a stray hiding under the stairs of the trailer, barley clinging to life. Named her Tabitha, she was Jerome’s favorite, taken a liking to him since they found her couldn’t have been more than four weeks old. most animals did. Jerome said it was because he understood them. Jeremiah always said it was because Jerome was more animal than human, still much to his dismay she loved him all blue eyes and short gray fur. He’d known her fate too, just as he did now with Bruce. A pity, truly. 

It was good for a while. Jerome bottle fed her, bathed her, played with her incessantly. But eventually he got bored, moved on to the next thing that fascinated him and when he tried to play with her again she bit him, preferred Jeremiah. It wasn’t long after that had she had her “accident”, that being Jerome “accidentally” breaking her neck, he didn’t even cry. Jeremiah knew he killed her could see the smile he barley hid when Jeremiah found her on his bed. Jerome said he was being unreasonable, that he couldn’t have possibly done it, as Jeremiah cried over her dead body, called him dramatic, said that she was in a better place, one she was suited for, that Jeremiah would have his own Tabithas one day too. Jeremiah hadn’t cried since then, not anything real anyway he wasn’t sure if he still knew how and well who was he to argue with facts like that, he was a man of science after all. Jerome was right however begrudgingly he’d excepted it.

He thinks Bruce is like Tabitha, he could leave him dead. Neck snapped on Jerome’s bed peaceful like sleeping beauty tell Jerome everything would be fine. That he was in a better place, that Jeremiah had to finish what he started. It was poetic, Bruce being a pon in their game childish rivalry. 

Bruce, poor sweet Bruce was so easy to play with. Jeremiah almost felt bad. Jeremiah wasn’t sure how he felt exactly, knew that he was different , different from everyone else, but hiding it had become second nature. Jerome had more trouble adjusting, always did. Used to tease him relentlessly calling him a fake, robotic, freak of nature. Which was rich coming from his budding psychopath of a brother, he supposes Jerome had gotten the hang of it eventually, it was years before he gave in to his impulses, before anyone but his mother caught on to his specific brand of crazy, so that must’ve counted for something. 

Jeremiah doesn’t think of it as faking just another means survival, and if he has to tell a white lie every now and then well, that’s alright. He never got why Jerome was so insistent on showing the worst parts of himself to the world, but after mom died it was easier, no one to pretend for except himself, and then Bruce. He knew it was a matter of time before he stopped believing his performance, wondered if he had caught on yet. Jerome never bought the his sanity, said it was in his blood. 

But what the hell did Jerome know anyway. He was a half baked circus sideshow who still didn’t know left from right, had no business bossing Jeremiah around anyway. He was different yes, but he wasn’t a killer, wasn’t Jerome. It was stupid but maybe if Bruce believe he was good, even if it was an act, then maybe he wasn’t so terrible after all. Jerome would say that was stupid, so like most things Jeremiah keeps it to himself, fills the air with none sense and small talk instead, it always works had when they were kids, it would work now too.

Jerome droned on about how dramatic he was for his reaction but Jerome quite got the concept of concern for others, says that Jeremiah never quite got it too, ‘Self preservation wasn’t empathy but it was as close as they could get.’   
Truly it seemed more like some awful cosmic joke than anything else. Jeremiah doomed the burden of caring, pretending or otherwise and Jerome doomed the burden of feeling nothing at all, nothing that required any depth. He was truly insane, made Jeremiah look like the Virgin Mary. A cruel tyrant from the moment they were born. To be fair so was Jeremiah but only in defense, after all no one was perfect.

He was surprised he hadn’t killed bruce on the way over, wondered if Bruce would be safe here. Jeremiah would try to make it up to him, compensate for his discomfort, The least he could do for the only person one who saw his potential rather than the worse he had to offer. He couldn’t see him though, would leave that to Jerome he was busy, other plans where far to pressing to talk about nothing while bruce tried to make sense of things. Jerome would do nicely for the time being. Until his untimely neutralization in due time, when he inevitably forced Jeremiah’s hand, and Jerome loved forcing people, especially when they didn’t know he was doing it. 

The thought has crossed his mind that they could coexist but it was unlikely Jerome was unstable in every since of the word, Jeremiah couldn’t trust him. He didn’t have time to worry about that, they’d be fine he’d help him and they’d hide bruce away. Hide and seek was always his favorite game. Even if he’d cheated every now and then.

————————

Bruce was easy enough to carry into Jeremiah’s little hideout, he’d known about it for a while, it was exactly the type Miah liked one thing on the outside and something completely different on the inside, figured this was were he’d take him. For someone so utterly convinced they could do no wrong, he sure did have the shadiest habits, I mean come on a fucking lair Jesus, he was hopeless. Jerome wouldn’t be surprised if he’d ended up a villain in some shitty bond movie. He didn’t listen to Jeremiah’s stupid remarks on his “architectural genius” or the infrastructure of the building. None of it mattered, it was filler, nervous words filled with nervous energy skirting around what was actually happening, He was used to it, Miah used ta do it when they were little too, make polite conversation or talk about a new toy or sitcom, like he hadn’t gone and got this shit beat out of Jerome five minutes prior. Then he’d get all pissy when Jerome responded with anything other than the upmost enthusiasm. Jeremiah loved to talk, talk to him, himself, anyone who would listen to him spout his bullshit until he was blue in the face. 

Jerome doesn’t know how he’d managed all those years alone in silence. Doesn’t ask because that would mean even more of his brothers incessant talking. Maybe that’s what got Bruce, Miah’s “charm” the thought angered him, he didn’t know why but everything angered him really. Bruce was a smart boy, smarter than that, he should’ve seen through him, unless he’d dumbed down since the last they spoke but Jerome doubted that, he was always off picking up new tricks to impress Jerome with when they’d fight. It was adorable, really, the princess fighting the dragon, or was he the knight? Maybe both. It didn’t matter. Jeremiah trailed behind him timid as he’d ever been as he threw Bruce into the single chair he’d pulled into the room. 

“Gentle Jerome, he’s a person not a rag doll” Jeremiah said voice filled with faux concern, Jerome was seven seconds away for stabbing him in the neck and finishing this himself. He decided against it, a dead body would be a bitch to clean up. 

“Shut up Jeremiah I know what I’m doing, and stop fucking hovering I’m not the one who strangled him half to death.“ Jeremiah gasped. Brows furrowed in a way that was sure to give him wrinkles prematurely, Jerome had always been the pretty one anyways, even now.

“I didn’t I-It was an accident I didn’t mean-“ Jerome cut him off before his pity party could start. He sighed, he didn’t have time for another meltdown

“I know Miah, I believe you,it’s okay” it was almost convincing .

“It’s okay?” 

“Yeah.” It was a lie, course, Jerome may have been insane but he wasn’t delusional, Jeremiah was one egg short of a basket case. Got that from ma, always needing to be consoled or comforted after they’d done something bad, and for some god awful reason made it Jerome’s job. Not that he gave two shits but at least he could handle being who he was, didn’t need it gift wrapped and sugarcoated to stand it, they were weak, he was strong, he didn’t have any other chose. God forbid they’d take responsibility for anything that wasn’t performative. 

He thought about Bruce who was against all odds different, a rich kid with a moral compass that rivaled Mother Theresa herself, he took so much responsibility; the whole world resting on those delicate little shoulders, he was strong, stronger than Jerome no doubt. Good, and all that shit that made Jerome irrationally angry, He didn’t fold under the pressures of the sins of the rest of the world. Just cared about anyone and everything, not because he had to, or because it made him look good, he just did. He’d cared when no one else in there right mind would, with no motive. Always desperate to do the right thing. but even so he’d still tried to reach out to him of all people. Jerome had always found that so fucking odd, Bruce Wayne, little billionaire brat reaching out to him, huh, what a joke. 

See Jerome has this little theory that it wasn’t just Bruce’s moral obligation that steered him in Jerome’s ill fated direction. He didn’t do it cause it was the ‘right thing ta do’ nah the right thing to do would be putting a bullet between his eyes before he could do the harm he inevitably would and call it a day; he did it because he wanted to, more so wanted Jerome in some way. He’d never admit which was fine, but he knew all the same. Payed attention. Jerome was a murder and Bruce was the tragic savior would make a very excellent martyr one day. It was insane and he was most definitely wrong, except he wasn’t call it a mad man’s intuition but he knew, it was all very funny. Toying with the idea of Bruce for once in his life being selfish breaking all his carefully coveted golden rules and all cause of Jerome, damn he’d like to see that, make it happen even; tear him to pieces and build him up into something unrecognizable. The thought crossed his mind then he’d make an even better criminal, had anyone ever been reduced to it. Forced him to be bad, just for a minute.

He wasn’t dumb, knew teenage boys, all raging hormones and anger. Knew that look that Bruce gave him, heated in more ways than one, knew what he could do to him with it. Jerome wouldn’t push. It was just a theory, of course, but he could if wanted to and he liked that. It was fun to mess with him, through him off with just a glance or the inflection of his voice reduce him to yearning, pained, barely restraining himself. Like a rabid dog chained away, just itching to sink its teeth into flesh and rip it to shreds. It was for lack of a better word endearing. If he could be endeared of course. He couldn’t. 

Bruce was still passed out when Jerome had the bright idea to strip him, it was purely strategic to disorient him, degrade him. he wanted to see how Bruce would react to that, if he could still talk with his grandiose rich people vocabulary naked. He left the boxers though, had to leave something to the imagination. And he was being nice for Bruce’s sake. He did still want him to be able to speak when he woke, he watched him, Bruce was all sharp angles and pale unblemished skin. 

He was so pretty in that girly sorta way Jerome wouldn’t have liked in his past life before all of this, there had been boys and even girls before but he’d never quite got the whole deal about people not before bruce, to be fair he hadn’t known what he was looking for, wasn’t looking really, just bored and he liked the way people looked underneath him so it was something to do. Bruce was much smaller than him, especially like this, and nimble too everything about him was all so uniquely Bruce; Jerome didn’t have the expansive vocabulary to describe him in a way that did him justice, a pity truly. 

He did miss the flush of his cheeks though. He must be cold, his lips aren’t the pink they usually are when he tells Jerome off, not that he stares; who is he kidding he’s all eyes when it comes to him, still they’re almost blueish. Jerome can never tell for sure nowadays, he’s always cold, and people usually aren’t naked underneath him and close enough to look at to tell but Bruce is covered in tiny little goosebumps all over, that he traces slowly with gloved fingers watching as Bruce unknowingly sinks into his touch, like a sleeping kitten. He wraps him gently in his arm to soak up whatever residual heat his body can spare, he doesn’t know if it works, not sure he’s doing it right but he tries anyways. Jerome wonders if he preferred catatonic to the lively and fiery counter part of Bruce’s waking state and quickly decides that, while he’s surely better this way himself, Bruce is a marvel regardless. It’s infuriating.

Girls should start taking notice of him soon, he’s around that age Jerome thinks and he’ll fill out a bit more too, lean and muscled girls like that sorta thing. Jerome exhales at the thought that the next time he carries him, he might carry some real weight. He’ll just have to get stronger. Jerome never did like change all that much when he couldn’t control it. He hopes Bruce doesn’t change too much. Not in the ways he can’t influence, Jerome doesn’t know if that’s really ‘healthy’, he doesn’t really care. 

He turns on the light overhead them a single light bulb. Bruce should be waking up soon, he unwraps bird like limbs from his waist and sets him back in the chair now that Jeremiah’s fucked off, probably getting ‘supplies’ or talking to the crazy blonde he’s obsessed with for the week, either way Jerome didn’t care, instead going to work on securing Bruce to the chair the handcuffs were his idea he’d taken em off some rookie cops trying to get him for “breaking and entering” they were good cuffs, the real thing and that and whatever Jeremiah had shot em up with in the car would hold him. Still, he tied him up just in case, and then he waited. Lurking in the dark watching him stir. It took a couple of minutes before he regained consciousness or enough to be coherent. 

Jerome stood perfectly still, Bruce wouldn’t see him until he wanted him too, soon enough but not yet. It look a few minutes before he was yelling quickly reeling in his horse voice calling out for Miah of all people, god he was so clueless still Jerome responded in turn. Making his way out of the shadows and into Bruce’s line of vision. He was confused to say the least, calling after Jeremiah he hadn’t been the one to drag him here. Jerome smiled as the realization dawned on him. 

“Hiya doll” he sighed. Bruce set his face into a frown, sliding his eyes closed, not very happy with the new development, Bruce had no idea he’d been back in town, he should’ve know better really, it was Jerome after all. Not like any walls could hold him without his permission. He decided rather quickly that he preferred when Bruce was looking at him, liked to see his eyes dance in his skull when they spoke, always gave him away. 

It was only a couple of seconds before his hands were on Bruce’s porcelain set jaw forcing him to look, and just like that everything fell into place, Bruce was staring at that way only Bruce did, if he was stupid he’d think it gave him butterflies, but it was nerves, they unnerved each other and Herron never felt more alive than when he had Bruce’s undivided attention. 

“I don’t understand how-“ Jerome already knew what he was going to say before the words left his mouth. 

“Ah, got jealous. Couldn’t let dear brother have all the fun, ‘sides I’m much better at the physical stuff then he ever was anyways.” Jerome smiled as Bruce flushed that way they did whenever he said something obscene, watched as Bruce stared him down mouth shutting with the clack of his teeth, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, eyes running over Jerome’s body and then his face, taken him all in. Jerome didn’t mind, after all he’d gotten his eyeful, fair is fair. He doesn’t think Bruce knows he’s naked yet or at least hasn’t thought much of it if he did. Bruce shook his head. Snapping himself out of whatever daze he’d been in.

“Anyway” 

“What?” It was more disbelief then anything, there he sat naked and tied up and still telling the serial killing, mass murder his grammar was shit. 

“Anyways is grammatically incorrect, it’s anyway.” Jerome couldn’t hide the shit eating grin on his face even if he wanted to, Bruce’s face turned sour and that only made it that much funnier he looked murderous, it was a good look on him. 

“Got it.” Jerome nodded barely strangled a laugh at the expression bruce wore now, all serious and stoic. He laughed when he was nervous what can he say, didn’t wanna think to hard about what this all meant, moments of clarity were rare and far in between and they’d do damn well to stay that way, for his sake and well everyone else’s. He knew one thing for sure bruce was tied up and he hadn’t once tried to barter his way out how strange. 

They were looking at each other again Jerome’s gloved hand still firmly in place at his chin. It was almost intimate, he’d fought Bruce, grazed him while he slept but this was something else, uncharted territory he hoped he wasn’t hurting him he knew bruce wasn’t glass but, he was still careful. Jerome wasn’t blind to the heat of his state, eyes locked heavily on the boy, a thick silence falling over them, palpable enough to bite. Jerome needed to talk before he did something stupid. 

Then he thought about his brother, how they got into all of this in the first place, what Bruce had said about wanting to work things out with him. Jeremiah didn’t deserve that in the slightest his anger was back and he was simmering. “Anyway, you said you wanted to talk so, go ahead, please use all your eloquent words about how you can save him, or how it’s okay and he can make it through this. I’ll be sure to relay the message.” Bruce just stared, catatonic again. Jerome couldn’t help the sweep of his gloved thumb over Bruce’s jaw, that made his face screw up all pretty, that barley there restraint firmly in place. ”You’re starin’ Brucie, like what ya see?” That barley there restraint was once again holding on for dear life as Bruce glared at him, he didn’t hold back the self satisfied grin that broke across his face. 

“No,” bruce exhaled like Jerome had punched the air out of his lungs, he was working him over, building his anger, Jerome always liked it when he was angry, he was so much rawer that way. He’d have to do better than this though. He stared down at Jerome’s hand. “You’re staring, you’re hand is lifting my head.” Jerome supposed he was right, still there was that look again, like he’d been captured under Jerome’s spell, like a saloon under a sirens song marching its way to death. Jerome loved it. Bruce’s face was always so expressive, always gave him away. He’d be terrible at poker. Still Jerome would play along, had to leave him wanting. Drawing his hand away from Bruce faster than he’d put it there in the first place. 

That seemed to draw bruce to his senses asking the first logical question he had since he woke. 

“Where am I?” Jerome smiled, like he’d ever tell Bruce had to know he wouldn’t but he was having fun, why stop now. 

“With me Bruce, that so bad?” He asked sincerely. Pulling another metal chair into the light above them, searching Bruce’s features for any give away as he sat, but Bruce was getting better, catching on. Jerome was almost proud as pink lips set into a harsh line, it was funny made him laugh. There was a new expression on Bruce’s face at that, one he knew all to well, one he’d worn as he fantasied about the death of his mother. It sent tendrils of hit down his spine, Bruce had caught him staring but his face was schooled and Bruce was in the dark. That was. New. Leaves Jerome restless, wringing out his finger before removing his gloves with his teeth, watching Bruce follow the movement, never taking his eyes off him. He wanted to see it again, had to know he hadn’t imagined it. He was standing now toying with the knife in the sleeve of his worn jacket, then pulling it between expert fingers. Liked the way Bruce stared like a deer in headlights, it was his fathers knife or at least he’d though it was Bruce’s reaction had told him he was right. He eyed it innocently. “I found it on the desk. You don’t mind do ya?” Still twirling it between his fingers. 

“That doesn’t belong to you, don’t“ he moved closer to him now only about a foot or two away. Watching at the subtle intake of breath it got from Bruce.

“Don’t what? What’d ya think I’m gonna do. Truthfully I haven’t decided,” he advanced further, towards him “See I’m not much of a planner,” fogging Bruce’s mind with their proximity, waiting for the tell tale signs of murderous rage, it wasn’t enough, he’d have to be more drastic, they were almost face to face at this point. He hoped bruce could smell the gum he’d stolen out of his jacket pocket back at his McMansion, that Jerome had the taste of him in his mouth. 

Yeah that seemed to get through, Bruce’s was taking in the revelation. He settled behind him, placing his hand on Bruce’s shoulder and their it was again, the subtle intake of breath, Bruce shivered underneath him. Jerome leaned in “I’d much rather be, spontaneous” he said a chuckle following his words. The open ended threat of daddy Wayne’s hunting knife tracing the delicate skin of Bruce just enough to feel the blunt pressure, a tease for what was to come. 

Bruce finally spoke “If you’re trying to bait me Jerome, you’ll have to try harder than my father’s knife.” Cute. Jerome leaned in closer fisting the dark hair at the nape of his slender neck leaning his lips to the shell of his ear, he could feel Bruce’s body begin to tense “Well, even so I have to admit, Daddy’s got good taste.” He whispered, Bruce’s body now taunt underneath him, red flushing to his neck, interesting. It was only a moment before he’d relaxed completely, but it was too late, Jerome had seen it, like he always did, and Bruce could do nothing but take what he gave him. 

“Yes, he did.” He finally responded. Jerome knew it was awful, getting him all riled up like this, but he couldn’t stop himself, didn’t want to. 

“Ya know, I never really was to close with dear old dad but I did enjoy killing him, watching him die. Very...cathartic.” He stood in front of Bruce, taking off his jacket that was suddenly too heavy for the atmosphere. Lowering his voice as his cruel words passed his lips. “Was it cathartic for you bruce, watching you’re parents die?” He watched as the color drained for poor orphan Annie’s face, could he make Bruce cry? Another time. Jerome’s smile was practically splitting his face in half. There was that look again, like Bruce wanted to split him in half, the same wave heat followed. What a strange development. Jerome licked his lips, looking at bruce quizzically before innocently asking “Strike a nerve?” Bruce stilled. Exhaling heavily. Jerome wanted him to scream. He would, eventually. 

Bruce’s eyes were hard, as he said his retort “Was it cathartic to-to watch your mother die?” It wasn’t very original, granted Jerome had just said it but he’d give him points for cruelty. And the smile playing at his lips that Jerome wanted to ruin in the most obscene ways, that would make Bruce beg for forgiveness, still he continued in the face of Jerome’s annoyance, the silence between them only lasting a minute. “Strike a nerve?” That was it, he hadnt meant to hit bruce hard enough for him to bleed, but he likes it anyways, the blood running down his chin as his red handprint blooms across cream white skin. He’s at his ear again before he can think better of it. “Killing my whore of a mother was the best thing I’ve ever done. She deserved it, and watching her as she screamed and screamed for me to stop begged me to help her, god it gets me going just to thinking about it,” Bruce looks almost green at the words, and Jerome utters a bitter mirthless laugh. “S’matter princess, feeling sick? That’s adorable.” That seemed to piss Bruce off enough into a response. 

“You’re awful, a freak of nature” He’d been called so much worse, the words didn’t even sting. Still bruce wouldn’t look him in the eyes, he could see tears swelling there, threatening to spill over. Bruce would look so pretty with tears streaming down his face. Jerome walked back, taking Bruce’s face in his hand, matching his handprint to his finger tips, tracing it as Bruce fought a wince. How brave. 

His mother used to do this to him sometimes, after she gave him a good beating, trace all the ugly marks she’d left behind, Jerome got the appeal now, couldn’t understand before, he’d wanted to mark Bruce from the inside out, permanently. Taint him until he cared a trace off Jerome that could never fade away. His hands made their way to Bruce’s lips, a pretty wine red, that he traced with his fingers, collecting the blood there and bringing it to his lips and swallowing around them, eyes fluttering shut, taking all of him in, Bruce watched him as he opened his eyes, lapping lightly at his fingers. “You taste sweet bruce.” His voice thick with something he couldn’t place. He needed to leave, otherwise he might break bruce in ways he means to keep him tact. He left before bruce could say another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I hope you enjoyed that because I definitely did. Till next time dolls ;)


	4. Dreadful Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce, alone, with only his thoughts to keep him company, contemplates the decisions that lead him to this point, his subconscious desires and a complicated relationship with the Valeska’s. A metamorphosis is occurring, one they’ve forced upon him, of course is he ever really alone? Every really safe in the confines of his mind? Who knows, certainly not him.

Bruce couldn’t see quite right, the harder he tried the more elusive he seemed, lights dimmed hiding his face in Bruce’s blind spot which one of them was it again or was both? He couldn’t tell, just hands, cold hands grasping at him calloused and lithe, and then soft warm fingers and strong arms held him up almost fervently. 

He was fervent, cold and hot all over, dying, they were killing him, that was the slow thrumming heat pulsing in his lower abdomen, running his muscles taunt as he tried not to moan cry out. The sound of laughter distantly ringing through his ears. They were going to kill him, he was dying in the best sense of the word. Hands were around his throat once again squeezing him a nice shade of lilac, Bruce liked lilac, it was subtle, sweet. Fitting he decided. 

He was going to die at the hands of them and that was fitting, he only hoped they wouldn’t make him beg, his pride couldn’t take it. If he had to beg for it. As if on cue the mocking baritones spoke to him voices skewed, distorted, one ear bleeding tone. Must be the drugs that they’d been pumping through him. 

When had they stopped being Jerome and Jeremiah to him. When had they bleed through into one inconceivable monstrosity, became something other than human. Why didn’t he hate the idea of it, not knowing where Jerome began and Jeremiah ended, a cumulative representation of their very worse, he was going to die at their hands, or the knife slowly thrusting in and out of the hollow of his hip, it hurt just right. Just the way he’d liked it, the dull thrum of pain punctuated by the sharp twist of a knife that made his jeans uncomfortably tight, he hadn’t liked it before them, he’d been normal, a little screwed up but not more than anyone else. Yet another thing for them to mock. They’d say he loved it, he would deny it, deny that it was anything other then a biological response to stimuli. Of course that stimuli being strong hands wrapped around his neck, purple bruises to match the turning of his face, and the dark crimson spilling steadily out of him. 

His vision was spotting, stars in his eyes just like the first time, when Jeremiah held his life in his hands, soft strong hands. He was bleeding out, but it could be equally as likely the lack of oxygen making its way to his brain. The dizzy thrum of his Bruce’s pulse felt so nice under their fingers, they wanted to know where else he was pulsing. They were touching him lightly at first then barely there. A teasing cruel touch. His eyes rolled back to the whites, hands clinging to defined biceps to stay upright. He could feel the sick curvature of full lips smile at that they’d always like it when he touched them unprovoked, warm mouths lapping at the nice wound carved into him, hands placed on naked torso, dragging blunt fingernails down his sides as he canted his hips to press into the lips. They pulled away a nice shade of vermilion, smile stuck wickedly in place. He couldn’t help but smile back, just a little. It was infectious, they had infected him, little by little, dosing him until he couldn’t very well function without them, it was so much worse than he’d imagined, he’d wanted it now, they had made him want it, need it, crave it more than anything. Nothing else mattered, just his next fix, they had reduced him to his most based desires an unfulfillable blood lust, he was nothing more than an animal, an exotic pet. He hoped it would be over soon, but a twisted part of him hoped they’d draw it out, cut away parts of him until he was nothing, end him slowly. Bruce had always liked endings.  
——————

Bruce woke panting. Mouth gasping a name he can’t quite make out, breathe punching itself in and out of his lungs, his sweat clinging to his skin. Ropes and cuffs keeping him tightly confined, alone in his concrete box, some kind of karmic retribution for trying to see the good in madmen he supposed. 

By now he knew they would keep him alive. Killing him would’ve been a mercy, a kindness, had Jerome been kind, or less self controlled he’d be dead peacefully rotting away in an unmarked grave at the edge of Gotham. Jerome wasn’t kind, he was cruel, had a remarkable capacity for it, bruce had somehow captured his attention and he refused to let him go, refused to be bored and Bruce did not bore him. Bruce did all the wrong things that he liked, he wasn’t afraid of him, that was incredibly stupid, to be unafraid, fear was what kept you alive, drew the metaphorical line between safety and danger. Bruce thinks this would have fascinated him before, before everything. That he’s forgotten how to draw the line, that someone had made him get so caught up, he couldn’t think of anything else but them, their interactions, their every word, a deadly game of cat and mouse. He was smart too bruce had come to find, or Bruce was distracted, Jerome had often distracted him now. The pull of him was stronger in the isolation, the carefully built walls Bruce created between them were crumbling, Jerome was tearing him apart brick by brick. If Bruce was smarter, stronger, careful, he would’ve been afraid. That was the acceptable emotional response, wasn’t it?Bruce wasn’t sure he was being brave or stupid, righteous or purely satisfying his own morbid curiosity. Right and wrong we’re far less black in white within the coveted fractures of his mind now. There was so much gray between the three of them, muddied, and unpleasant to look at. Reminiscent of the black and white films his mother used to watch tattered in shades of charcoal and dust, he’d never been quite fond of them before, but things were different now, his taste were different, darker and suddenly he quite understood the appeal. It was the isolation he told himself. That had been the cause Jerome becoming his entertainment too, they entertained each other now a mutually destructive dalliance. Jerome and his incessantly long rants about his plans for Gotham, reducing it to nothing but chaos and rubble, the crazy blonde he didn’t quite like that Jeremiah had grown fond of, Jeremiah himself and his awful new attempts at repairing their dysfunctional family, and then their were the jokes, always jokes. Jerome could barley go an hour without cracking one at least, they were, to Bruce’s dismay, funny, the kind of funny that made his whole body shake with laughter against his will, until his cheeks stung from smiling and his stomach ached. He found that his body had a mind of its own, a traitorous, awful mind with a sick sense of humor. 

It was the isolation he told himself, always the isolation. It changed nothing, the moments of peace were still forged in the dark corners of his concrete box, they weren’t friends, Bruce didn’t even particularly like him, but they were something. They had to be now, he’d saved him, in his own twisted, selfish way, stopped Jeremiah from stealing the life from his eyes, Bruce didn’t know what to make of that. Didn’t quite want to, and while it would’ve plagued his mind had he been even a shadow of the person he once was. Bruce was not that person, Jerome was not kind, not to anyone. Unfortunately Bruce couldn’t bring himself to care. That had bothered him at first, the cool numbness he’d instilled with his visits, but eventually even that faded too. Until there was nothing left to feel, to fight, until bruce no longer wanted to fight, not in anyway that mattered. It was hard at first, to give up, to hate him the way he’d come to but it was giving in and that was enough. It was easier now, familiar like fear that once had been second nature. That was more foreign now, distant. 

He hated him for taking that away, hated him and latched onto it. Hates him the best he can everyday. It’s the only thing he can stand to feel, and so, he lets himself feel it wholly, completely, until he’s drowning in an all consuming hate, that fills his lungs, burns in place of the oxygen that should be there, until he’s never hated anyone the way he did Jerome, feels it searing through him from the inside out every moment they spend together, until he’s nothing but burnt flesh and then ash, nerves exposed and frayed. 

He though of telling Jerome, completely sure he’d find someway to make it a complement, turn it into one of his jokes, that was another thing Bruce hated about him. Everything was a joke, and Bruce was quite possibly his favorite punchline. Though maybe he’d surprise him, he had a habit of doing that. Call him a phoenix, while he roughly stroked back his hair, he did that often now, touch bruce, just to see what he would do, but maybe just because he wanted to, couldn’t resist. He could almost see it in his head, Jerome’s ramblings of Bruce, a beastly creature reborn through death and carnage, yes Jerome would say it with unbelievable grandeur. Rising slowly from the ashes. He’d tell him, getting close to him the way he shouldn’t, the way he always did, close enough for Bruce to see the sick, vibrant, green of his eyes, he could almost reach out, Bruce never did, never so much as touched him in anyway other than violently. And yet, he was close, close enough for the dreams to play on a silent loop in his mind for days on end.

He’d like to turn Jerome to ash he thinks non commonality, turn him into nothing in the palms of his hands the way he’d done to Bruce, watch as he felt him slip through his fingers, thought about it while he stared into the dark shadows cast on the wall.

He’d been there for a while. Days fading into weeks and weeks fading into months, almost a two months if he had to guess. Plenty of time to think, think about them, how everything had fell apart so terribly in front of him, the minute he met Jeremiah, maybe even the moment he’d met Jerome. How naive he’d been to seek out someone who shared the same face, that had the same blood running through his veins. If tears sting at his eyes at the thought, he pretends not to notice. 

If he had considered Jeremiah redeemable before, he surely did not now. He had never been so wrong about another human being in his entire life, so willfully blinded.. Jerome was awful yes, but to his credit, Bruce knew from the moment they met he was a monster, he never lied to Bruce. He was far more creative than that, used truth as a carefully engineered weapon in attempt to break him, mind and body, but he never lied. Bruce wouldn’t break, but he was cracking, and that was concerning, the fractures of himself made him different, not worse, not yet.

Jeremiah brilliant as he was, seemed to only be cable of deceptions and half truths. Would smile to Bruce’s face and tell him their friendship only thing that mattered, how incredibly sorry he was for ‘his brothers brutish ways’ while setting up his iv drip of his drug of choice he wanted to try out on Bruce. Jerome had made him stop after a month or so. That alone filled Bruce’s mind with a horridly violent indignation, he almost craved it now, the temporary euphoria when his drug fogged mind made him forget. Without it Jeremiah’s betrayal burned itself into his memory every time he visited him, he could barley stand to look at him now, that was all he saw, empty dead eyes, faking a well thought out, well practiced act. Quickly realizing Bruce’s distain for him, Jeremiah had tried to win bruce over at first, convince him that Jerome had forced him. It was the same story that never wavered so unbelievably rehearsed now that he’d grown to know him, rehearsed just like everything else Jeremiah said to him. So Bruce didn’t believe him, he couldn’t. 

Eventually he’d left Bruce alone, only interested in Bruce’s affection, or praise like he’d die without it, seize from existence. Bruce hoped he did, died slowly and painfully without compassion. Wiped away from his mind and his world. He’d hurt Bruce, hurt him for kindness, Bruce wanted to kill him for it, that and all the condescending guilty trips that spewed out of him, the sob stories about the torture and isolation he endured. That was the first time bruce had told him off, earned him Jeremiah’s right hook, it was the first and only time he ever hit him since the night he’d been taken. “For a genius you are so fucking stupid”, had been what Bruce said. Though, he suspected the ignorance was intentional, made it easier on himself, turning a blind eye to the torture Bruce endured at his hands making himself Bruce’s hero, he was just as insane as Jerome always said he was. More so even. 

Jerome was self aware, didn’t pretend, or force himself into ill fitting sheep’s clothing and he could respect that even if he wanted to rip his head off for it. Bruce never would actually, kill him, them, anyone. It was his one rule he’d made here, one he would never break. It separated him from the rest of the monsters in his city, the one he would never see again. 

Still a stupidly optimistic part of himself hoped he would, even if just to say goodbye to Alfred. 

He was already becoming someone unrecognizable, a spiteful hateful version of himself, more and more like Jerome than he’d had any right to be. He’d die before he’d ever let them become the same murdering, monsters, who didn’t value human life as more than a means of entertainment. 

That didn’t stop the concept from weaving its way into his subconscious little by little, starting with the dreams, and then vivid visions of crushing pretty redheads against Gotham pavement just to see how well the blood would contrast against it. He couldn’t help it but, he repressed them the best he could. They were monsters, he knew that, but he didn’t have to be, didn’t want to. He wouldn’t let them have that, wouldn’t let them win. He swallowed down the ball of emotion in his throat, pushing it down the way he’d done for weeks now, like he always did wouldn’t give Jerome the satisfaction of breaking down, rubbing Bruce’s tears from his cheeks with faux compassion, not ever. 

His head was aching, thrumming against his skull, his thoughts physically forcing themselves out of him, when the dreams had started he tried to stay awake at first, avoid them, hide but it was unsuccessful, no point in running if you’re running from your own mind. There were thoughts in his head that weren’t his, took a different voice, form, monstrous, calling out to him. Making him feel insane but still like he’d never experience true clarity without him, there was someone else in his head, he tried his best not to go down that train of thought, it only made the headaches worse, debilitating. 

He thought about lashing out, screaming at the tops of lungs until they were bloody and raw demand to be set free, for them to stop their nauseating game of tug of war they’d stuck him in. It was pointless, he was helpless, Jerome reminded him of that often made him repeat it back until his voice wavered with emotion, wanted bruce to believe it. He did he was at their mercy just like they wanted. 

The passive anger was the easiest part, until he couldn’t help but think of Alfred, what this must’ve been doing to him, the pain he caused, taken in the middle of the night all because of a childish desperation, befriending Bruce, breaking his heart, it was possible the most effective method of torture they inflicted, the lasting effects so much more impactful then the rest, he would never be the way he was before them. He wondered if he’d ever be found, alive or dead. He knew he wouldn’t, they would never let him go, not even in death. 

He wasn’t dehydrated, Another IV placed neatly into his bloodstream, Jerome fed him, sometimes, when he felt like it and when Bruce didn’t call him an abomination sent from the pits of hell. His legs were numb, stung from lack of use, they’d let him out of the confines of the chair for the most part now, Jeremiah had installed a bed and plumbing for a bathroom, it was the only time Bruce was allotted to a different room, if the hallway counted as a room, it was the same as his, concrete, cold, completely impersonal, but what could he expect from Jeremiah, other than cold and impersonal design. 

Bruce was back in the chair now, had tried to attack Jerome the last time they spoke his voice just so unbearably condescending that day. The rasp of baritone grating like nails against a chalk board. Referring to Bruce as if he was a petulant child he’d been forced to care, as if he knew nothing. Bruce swung fast, landed a punch to Jerome’s throat before he’d taken him down, knocked him out cold on the concrete floor, so he sat in the chair just like he had at the beginning, and his headaches from the light that was almost always shinning to bright overhead, he preferred the all encompassing pitch black in its absence. Until he didn’t, could hear steady breaths, in and out, watching, laying in wait. Stealing him away from the quiet nothing.

Bruce thought back to when he’d first met Jerome’s seemingly sane counterpart, when they’d worked on the Wayne sustainable clean energy project shortly after. How well they’d gotten along, how compassionate Jeremiah was, the way his eyes lit up whenever bruce complemented his unparalleled ability to design unique and functional elements he applied, the cutting-edge structures he’d created. He was brilliant, endless potential, the wonderful things they could have done for Gotham, the world would have been revolutionary. It made him angry that he’d had gone and ruined everything, let his self interest take priority. While he pretended everything was the same, like he hadn’t brought him to the brink of death with a mere flip of switch passionate, warm eyes replaced with a impassive, empty gaze. Before Jeremiah had always seemed so concerned with the state of Bruce, he hadn’t even thought to consider why.

He tried not to focus on the implications of the dreams. The connotations of the vile combination of heat and self hatred in his stomach when he thought to hard about them, repulsiveness had only served to intensify it. The more he hated it the more vivid it became. Inescapable and insufferable just like them.

He wasn’t naked anymore, covered in a thick sweater, black with sad clown emblems on the cuffs, Jerome’s idea of a joke. Along with a pair of black pajama bottoms. Bruce couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at his bruised lips, disingenuous, didn’t reach his eyes made him wince at the pain of a busted lip and the ache in his jaw. Jerome was still unbearable, he’d hurt him at every chance he’d got, visit him just to remind Bruce how insignificant he was, over and over again. Bruce liked it, it fueled his hate and so The brunette in turn would provoke him, goade him into it, liked the pain, the way his words so clearly got under Jerome’s skin, he decided that if Jerome was awful it was only fair to return the favor. Jerome would do it first often, go from manageable to cruel just to force bruce to react. He’d yet to understand why, why he did the things he did, said the things he said. Why he saw him so often, just to insight his rage. Wouldn’t put his energy into understanding the inter-workings of the mind of a mad man He wouldn’t understand, so it was pointless to try. 

The game Jerome was playing required bruce to be kept in the dark until Jerome saw fit. He was controlling that way. Bruce hated that too, being lead blindly like a lamb to slaughter forced to defend himself constantly. Maybe that was the point. Jerome and his own misguided way of looking out for him, attend to his needs the only way he knew how, he did so much differently than anyone in their right mind would. Knowing he was insane didn’t make him any less susceptible his influence, he’d known because Jerome wanted him to, because he was aloud and that fact alone was enough to draw his brain back to the a steady hand driving a blade into a warm and welcoming body, plaguing him. It should’ve meant less than nothing, so he pretended that the slap to the face had been the reason his cheeks were white hot, the ropes the only reason his clothes were suddenly too much.

He wasn’t sure if they’d seen him. Watched him sleep. Jerome did some nights in the safety of the darkness, when Jeremiah was long gone, keeping up appearances and he thought Bruce was sound asleep. Shaky hands held his face in the silence of the night, as Bruce tried to calm the steady increase of his heart beat. The gentlest touch from Jerome he’d ever received, so starkly different from the bruising grip he used when Bruce was awake. 

His voice was soft, less theatrical, Bruce suspected he’d have a beautiful singing voice, the kind that was unexpectedly soft, raw, filled with emotion. Built for lullabies and love songs. He’d ramble about things. Fights with his brother, the guy he’d killed last week, if he was really careful, Jerome would even talk about his mother, the days at the circus, the abuse he insured and Bruce would listen, he would listen to every word, pretending to sleep as bare cold fingers traced his cheekbones until he actually fell asleep . He still hated him, but he could listen, he got the feeling that no one ever had and Jerome didn’t deserve it but he could do that, he could listen. 

His bones no longer froze in the concrete room, regardless of the quality he’d been able to sleep, he was building a tolerance to whatever was in his system, or Jeremiah was lowering the dosage, he was getting stronger, strong enough to hold his own if it came to that, hoping the element of surprise would work in his favor. He could pretend, play the weak hostage. After all it was the least he owed Jeremiah after his performance of normal and completely sane best friend, it’d be rude to leave with that debt unpaid. Just a formality, and if his mind or dick said otherwise he’d ignored it.

**Author's Note:**

> this is kinda outta my wheel house as of you know there’s a plot but whateva  
> Till next time dolls ;)


End file.
